The Year After
by Vesper Nexus
Summary: Three of the Horsemen left, tired of waiting and impatient with the stress of being constantly chased by the law. Only Daniel remained, but now a new summoning has been delivered from the Eye. Things have become far more dangerous than anyone had anticipated. Can the Four Horsemen overcome their problems and can Daniel finally forgive them? Set about two years after the movie.
1. Chapter 1

He's almost unrecognisable, Merritt thinks.

The long black coat he wears reaches his knees and covers his slender shoulders like a thick blanket. It's buttoned to the collar and hugs his lithe frame tightly, shielding him from the oncoming gusts of wind as it filters through the street and carries the light leaves of winter on its back. His hair as grown longer than it had been previously, still dark and thick and bordering his prominent features in smooth locks. That, however, has always been a trait of his, something that has only slightly differed from the last time Merritt had seen him. No, what honestly surprises him (though it probably shouldn't) is the shadowing of his onyx-grey orbs. Despite being hidden partially by his long curved lashes, eyes which had been bathed in so much curiosity and mischief and amusement had become those burdened with the deepening bruising of exhaustion in the form of circles marring his exceptionally pallid skin. Merritt knows that he had never been tan or overly kissed by the sun, but the pallor of flesh stretching over angular cheeks has become far too pallid to be healthy. Merritt notices that he is only a few meters away now, within the warmth of the café. Now that he isn't forced to watch the figure from beyond the glass of the window, he realises that the gaze he has not met in years is even shallower than he had anticipated. He watches as he approaches with a paper cup of steaming coffee between two gloved hands, and feels Jack and Henley stand as abruptly as he.

J. Daniel Atlas looks much younger (though it does come as quite the shock) than he had just about four hundred days ago. The steel in his orbs, instead of making him seem as uncaring and indifferent as he wishes, allows Merritt an insight to the battle of vulnerability and insecurity raging within the younger man. He doubts the others see it because the way Daniel holds himself he knows he has been there before, he has built up these defences in order to protect himself, and Merritt knows that if he hadn't been who he was, if he hadn't studied mentalism all these years, that he would miss the signs too.

When Daniel finally makes his way through the small crowd and to their table of too many seats, his light almost soundless footfalls fall short and he pauses for a moment. No one, not even Merritt, says anything for a while and silence cascades among them like a coverlet too thick and embroiled with the tight strings of tension. He feels Jack stiffen beside him and realises that he must have seen in Daniels eyes what he had too, though to his left Henley makes no sudden movements whatsoever.

Henley parts her lips to speak, but Daniel doesn't give her the chance. He edges forward in a poised manner and his long, lean fingers latch onto a chair opposing them, the furthest from where they sit at the table, and gracefully drops into it, the coffee cradled in his palm never tilting or sloshing to one side.

The awkwardness of the situation is further fuelled, Merritt realises, when the remaining three horsemen abruptly sit too, though all lacking Daniel's elegance as they struggle for words. Wood screeches against the partially tiled partially carpeted floor of the old café as no one makes a sound. The chatter and voices are all loud and evident around them, and yet he knows that none of the four of them hear anything past the silence descending between the former best friends.

The only movement that is made, seconds later, is Daniel's. Merritt, Henley and Jack all watch in strange fascination (as if they expect something of difference to occur) as Daniel shrugs of his coat. Merritt winces inwardly as he notices, for the first time, the honest sharpness of the illusionist's shoulders, the fact that his wrists have become thin enough for the mentalist to be able to wrap his hand around one and feel the ends of his fingers graze his palm. When Daniel slowly pulls of the fabric of his gloves from his fingers, the whiteness of his knuckles is (though most definitely should not be) the same whiteness as the rest of hands (the paleness of snow, or ash).

He does not know what to say, and finds that unsurprisingly, neither do his fellow companions. And yet Daniel only holds their stares, unspeaking, evidently and ominously waiting for them to initiate the first of contact. He will not say anything, Merritt knows, and still finds himself slightly lacking the ability to form words. The material of Daniel's dress shirt ruffles as he reaches for his coffee cup and holds it as if it was the most precious things between his fingers. He averts his gaze and lifts it up to his lips, swallowing a long drag. Merritt feels restless and finds that might have to be the one to break the silence.

"Daniel…" Henley speaks, and before he is able to comprehend what is occurring, his chance has already fled (he finds that he is thankful).

The illusionist's fingers tremble slightly at the sound of his former assistant's soothing voice, and Merritt understands why. He has no time to think over it, however, as Daniel rests the paper cup upon the table and replies.

"What am I doing here?"

The question is curt and straightforward and definitely not rhetorical. It reverberates through the room and it almost feels as if all of the conversations echoing within the café have stopped. The only thing that has not changed in the voice he had not heard in so long is that speed at which the question is asked. There is no underlying warmth or mirth, and matches the emotions flowing over his features.

Merritt finally finds his voice.

"The eye called us here, remember? We all have to be here. The horsemen have to be here." He knows it is the wrong thing to say, but know it is the only thing he _can _say. Coldness immediately filters through Daniel's eyes at the sound and tone of his voice, and Merritt almost wishes he hadn't spoken.

He tells himself the waves of guilt are unavoidable and deserved.

"You gave up being horsemen four hundred and twelve days ago when you left." Henley cringes beside him and Jack is barely holding himself together at the slight emotion which breaks through Daniel's voice. "I never did receive anything from the Eye. All I had was your word after over a year…" He looks up and for a moment, Merritt sees questions hailing a storm in his eyes. "I don't know why I thought that even counts anymore…"

It's not meant for one of them, but all of them. And yet it hurts as a separate blow, though completely expected. Three of the Horsemen had separated, gone their different ways because they saw no reason to remain. Only Daniel had remained and yet none of them thought that he was worth remaining with. Because in end love was not enough for Henley nor was the thrill for Jack, and Merritt had left before they could leave him. Only the card captor reigned through the streets of Los Angeles and New York, of New Orleans and Boston. Of Paris and Nice, of Venice and Rome and everywhere in the world the name J. Daniel Atlas had become infamous for his genius and magic- a solo act once more, abandoned and yet seemingly unhindered.

Merritt had kept track of the younger man even after he left, an odd feeling of responsibility washing over him. He had heard about the enchantment of Daniel, the shows in front of crowds with too many audiences to count, the amazing skill and nimble fingers which would filter through cards at the speed of light and wow viewers at an even faster rate. Sliding as expertly as a shadow from in between the fingers of law, Daniel Atlas had become a worldwide phenomenon even without them. Merritt pushed down the ridiculously emitting pride swelling within his chest and kept his eyes on Daniel who had yet to say anything else.

He watched as Daniel's eyes drifted to Jack, who had removed the summoning card from his jacket pocket and placed it carefully in front of him on the table, upwards so that it could be read. It only took the other man a moment to read and consider before he stood with an abruptness which shook the table slightly and made Merritt lean away in surprise. He donned his coat in a movement so swift that Merritt almost missed it, and shoved his gloves in one of the pockets, simultaneously knocking the now empty coffee cup into a nearby bin.

The others had stood as fast he had, but it had only taken one look at him to tell them what he had thought.

"This is a waste of my time. I'll be going now."

His footsteps echoed loudly, and he was out the door before any of them could process the movement.


	2. Chapter 2

Merritt motions for the others to remain and expertly ignores their blinding glares shielding undeniable regret and worry. It seems evident that they had, at least to a certain point, noticed the same factors as he. He only feels thankful that is able to understand the power of mentalism to such a distinct extent; he hopes that it will aid him in what he is to say when (if) he is able to reach the retreating figure before he completely disappears into the night.

The door shuts noisily behind him as he scuffles through the ravaging gusts of wind. His fedora tilts and he is grateful that it remains perched atop his head as he draws his own coat in a tighter manner around himself (almost protectively). He does not want to do this, he realises. He does not want to confront the demons which had been plaguing him into dozens of guilty sleepless nights. He does not want to feel the pain Daniel does. And yet, he thinks, there is more to consider than himself.

He does not let Daniel get away; his feet are rushing before his fervent mind allows him to process what he means to do. He is already manoeuvring his way through the loud and strangely bashful crowd; and deeper down into the darkened alleyway in which he had seen the undeniable lean figure slide slyly into; as quick and silent as a shadow.

Merritt (for once) thinks it a good thing he had been chasing shadows all his life.

He is rushing and his breath almost leaves him, but he forces himself to this if for the Horseman than nothing else. He braces himself. He knows he will do this.

"Wait."

Nothing more was required and the quiet which seemed to suddenly envelop everything in seeming existence remained as thick and tense as it had ever been. He takes only a single step forward and hears his shoes shuffling along the gravel hesitantly as he nears the back of his former friend who is facing away from him. Even from such as distance, Merritt is able to gaze upon the tension mercilessly bordering Daniel's overly thin, sharp shoulders; the untimely stiff manner in which he holds himself. He looks only for a moment longer and does not see the young man he knew all that time ago.

He sees a shadow.

Someone who had lowered his defences in belief that he will not be hurt, someone who had been forced to build them up again as he had realised his mistake.

He sees a product of his making.

Merritt swallows deeply and grapples for what he hopes are the correct words; he knows not what to say anymore, he knows naught of what will heal something which had never been supposed to break. He does not deserve Daniel's time, regardless of the summoning, and yet he is given that much. That is all he needs to tell him that there is still hope.

"Daniel…"

Buried in a darkening black chasm of coldness and pain, and yet still flaring brightly in existence. Merritt takes advantage of the knowledge that the younger man will still listen to him and understands that he must use it ruthlessly; that he must lighten a flame from the embers he had been given. It had to begin with a spark.

Still unmoving, Merritt comprehends the action (or perhaps lack of) as a sign to continue. He clears his throat and adjusts his coat, perching his fedora lower onto his head in order to shield the glimmers of his eyes. He knows that Daniel cannot see him from this angle but he cannot help but feel revealed and open in front of that steely, unforgiving gaze hiding the truth of loss and betrayal. He decides to use whatever he is given to its highest extent. He speaks.

"It doesn't have to be like this."

The words sound shallow even to him. It ignites a cold, harsh feeling within him. He does not know what to say. He does not know if he should say _anything._

Daniel says nothing for a short while either; the breeze flickers through his lengthened hair and fluttering his coat in an abstract shadow of darkness. A moment of quiet passes and the tall buildings around them seem to loom ever so taller, the murkiness echoing within the empty alley ever more saliently. Nothing is said, but soon Daniel is manoeuvring himself to the side; turning in a slow motion to face Merritt.

He is half facing him when the younger man parts his lips and diverts his eyes from the wall, allowing them to adjust to the lack of light further and to crawl towards the mentalist. His now gloveless hands are pressed deeply into the pockets of the coat which swirls around his figure, and remains unmoving as he tilts his head and studies Merritt who stands motionless and waiting.

The gaze which meets his is (remarkably) colder than they had been in the café with the bustling, oblivious crowd. (Or maybe it is only that Merritt has failed to ignite the match to his flame).

Daniel still says nothing and that unnerves him more than he is willing to admit. For a fleeting second he remembers the young man with the arrogant and narcissistic personality, cunning and sly and talented enough to be the smartest in the room. He recalls the lips which seemed to comment on everything, judge everything, talk in a quick tone leaving nothing but opinion and no room for argument. And now he has chosen to be silent. (He understands why). The showman is awaiting what evermore he has to say, and Merritt knows this chance is too rare and precious to overlook. He will give Daniel whatever he can and hope it will be enough.

He does not know what to say, but he speaks anyway.

"Give this a chance, Daniel. It's only one show. There must be a showman, and illusionist. We must be the Four Horsemen; we cannot be four with only three." It seems remarkably uncharacteristic to say, but it is what allows Daniel's eyes to flicker through some uncertain emotion all of the mentalism Merritt has studied is unable to catch, let alone understand.

He moves to completely face him, and all Merritt is able to see is a dying star across the pitch black night sky. His light is leaving him, but Merritt refuses to let it fade completely. He will not lose his friend (not like this).

He takes another step forth and is overcome by relief when Daniel does not flinch or grimace or shuffle back. Instead he holds his ground with shielded emotions as Merritt takes another and another until he is standing only a single metre before him.

The one hundred centimetres suddenly feel like a thousand; a million; and Merritt wonders how he had ever missed it. He wonders how he had ever had it in himself to give up so easily.

The illusionist looks paler than he had ever been, only a single broken fragment of his once curious and entertained self, and that (more than anything), shakes Merritt to the core. It jolts him and pries his eyes open as he realises what he is doing, he had to be done, (what he must do).

"What do you want from me?" Daniel does not ask about the Eye, or the show or the plans or the secrecy. He does not mention the law or the abandonment or the betrayal. He does not signify they mean anything to him, he does not unveil anything. (A magician never reveals his secrets. Merritt thinks this is not the time to consider such a fact).

He only asks what Merritt wants from him. (Not Henley or Jack or Dylan Rhodes. Merritt).

And Merritt does not know until he feels a sudden instinctual pull and his arms reaching forward, his legs moving to their own accord once more, his forearms brushing against cool thick fabric and his fingers entwining between and behind a pair of too thin shoulders with too thin shoulder blades.

He does not know what he is doing until he does it. He hugs Daniel and realises that he does not know.

(He does not know what he wants from him, but he is willing learn).


	3. Chapter 3

The reaction he receives from the illusionist is somewhat exactly what he expects.

The tension amplifies tenfold and he is once more left unsurprised. The younger man freezes completely and he releases a light hitch of breath barely audible in the darkest of nights and the windiest of winters. There is no reciprocation (nor any movement, he notices). Even the subtle rise and fall of the chest that is pressed tightly against his seemed to have paused momentarily, and Merritt, within all his magnanimity and unspoken benevolence, cannot help the instinct which strengthens his hold around sharp edges of what is evidently a looming disaster. Daniel barely breathes for the seconds (seeming as if minutes, hours, _days_) he is enveloped with arms too strong and too familiar, and the mentalist does not fail to notice.

For such a short while, the only sound erupting through Merritt's eardrums consists of the loud, vicious (angry, desperate, betrayed) wailing of the breeze as it howls continuously around them. For such a while, he cannot see past the darkness of his closed eyelids or the morbid, devastating images dancing throughout them. For a short while all he can hear and taste and touch and see is nothing but what he allows himself to; nothing bearing the ability to distract or condemn him from what he is doing now; nothing bearing the ability to allow him to cower or hide from what he knows he fears most.

All is left is what he feels, and is most certainly not cold, thick fabric rustling beneath his fingers. No, rather it is the light, almost unnoticeable trembling which breaks out in silent vibrations against him. It is the head bowing into the upper joint of his arm and the shoulders which seem to suddenly slump against him; resting and defeated and exhausted from carrying the weight of the world. It is the skeletal thin fingers which dig crevices into his arms as they move in the speed of light and attach themselves to his coat.

There is only evening breathing now, louder than the angry fist of wind. It mingles with the scent of defeat and anger and Merritt thinks he can almost smell the feint fragrance of salt. And yet, despite the almost unnoticeable quivering of the younger man, he knows no such tears are being shed. Merritt understands he is worth no such effort.

He is not aware of the time which passes between them (he is almost unsure) but he knows it has been a while. The wind has picked up and is ravishing them now; weaving through and within them and has become considerably and ruthlessly frostier. It brings the large heavy drops of almost frozen rain and carries each tear of heaven until it is soiled and sinking into the fabric of their camouflaging coats. He only lifts his fedora clad head when he feels the water pelt against his cheek and realises that they cannot stay out in the throes of the real world, defended by the (seemingly heightening) bricks and glass of the buildings, where all the sadness and faithlessness is able to penetrate through and claw mercilessly at their desperation.

When he shifts, Daniel does too. It is not a movement which is abrupt or quick as all of him has been tonight. Instead, it is long and lingering and almost regretful. He feels an irrational pressure pressing against his chest at the sudden (and yet expected) sadness which washes over him like the tidings of a broken promise. The younger man lessens his hold on the sleeves of Merritt's long jacket and inhales one long, suffering breath which trembles almost as much as he. It takes a long moment of unknown silence for Daniel to completely let go of his arms and all the mentalist wishes to do at this point is hold him closer (securely, safely, forever). And yet he does the same, unclenching his fingers from the now wet material and taking a small, practically immeasurable step backwards. When the illusionist does it, it almost lacks his usual grace and elegance, and Merritt does not comment because now he is certain he understands. He understands because he feels the same.

When he lifts his head to look at Merritt, the older man watches as a drop cascades from the curve of the almost black prison of his eyelashes before it glides down his smooth pale cheek. And in all he knows and does not, Merritt is unable to tell whether it had been a tear or a factor of the rain. He does not want to think about it.

Something flickers in Daniel's gaze when he meets it and stubbornly holds it. It borders confusion and acceptance and understanding, and some unreasonably foolish part of Merritt wants to yell at him, to scream at the younger man because (why is he so forgiving? How can he be so forgiving?) It isn't right he thinks, and the guilt which he had been pushing down into his subconscious resurfaces immediately and he absolutely hates that this is how he feels. He knows it would be easier, better, simpler, if Daniel just hated him or remained angry or unforgiving and irrationally, he wishes he had. He comprehends that this is what he _wants, _to be forgiven and understood, but he also comprehends that this is not how it should be.

And yet it is, so he allows himself to be selfish and lifts the corners of his lips in something hopefully passable for a smile; and feels like he is about to fall apart when Daniel does too.

What happens next almost becomes a blur for him, and he is sure that it is not much better for the showman walking beside him. They are making their way through the storm (which Merritt finds also has metaphorical sense) and he is pushing the door open to the aging building with one shaky hand for Daniel before he is able to process it. There is a moment of hesitance in which the younger man is completely still and the Merritt fears he has gone too far, until he sees the illusionist exhaling softly and hears the sound of his shoes pressing against the somewhat carpeted floor of the café. He brushes past him and does not glance back until he too has made his way inside the warmth. The spark of hope ignites again and he almost sighs in relief when the lithe form of his former best friend moves in front of him.

He has not imagined it all. He thinks that this is what immense gratitude should feel like.

Jack and Henley are still seated, chattering away nervously and worriedly and seeming to be only a few moments from standing up and moving to look for Daniel themselves. And then, he watches as their eyes widen and their lips part and knows that they have seen them walking forth. He also knows it takes all they have in them not to stand and apologise or excuse themselves because it may be what they need, but not what Daniel does. They know as well as he that the card captor will not appreciate it.

He shuffles slightly awkwardly through the crowd and shudders from his wet coat, almost immediately removing it from his shoulders. When they arrive at the rickety wooden table and he sits, straightening his shirt for a lack of something to do, he watches as Daniel does the same; occupying his previous chair. It takes him longer to peel of his soaking jacket and Merritt knows it is probably because there is so much filtering through his mind that he has not felt nor realised the freezing water dampening his clothes. He knows the feeling.

Daniel only licks his lips and the older man notices that that is the first sign of nervousness he has given all night. His gaze is once against bordered, his defences raised indefinitely (if not strengthened since their time outside within the eye of the storm) and his hair has rapidly dried in long, dark somewhat messy locks framing his overly pallid features. It is almost as if their embrace had not occurred, as if what he had said had been completely and utterly forgotten…

Despite this, there remains something in the manner in which he holds his stare, as if there is something rattling within him which frightens him to the devious point of insecurity.

When his voice breaks out, Merritt can almost feel Jack's knuckles turn white from their grip on the edge of the wood, he can almost hear the break when Henley's teeth dig too harshly into her lip.

"So, shall we start?"


End file.
